The Fall Is Long, Indeed
by my-last-username-was-immature
Summary: All it takes is a seed, breathed in as Percy Jackson broke and bled within Tartarus. All it takes is a seed, to change the lives of every demigod alive, to awaken ancient monsters and darker threats than Olympus has ever faced before-with the worst kind of enemy leading them. One who was once a friend. Post-BOO, disregard Trials of Apollo.
1. Chapter 1: Stumble

It is so easy to break a demigod.

They are capricious by nature-they are halfway gods, after all, and the immortals of Olympus are as all-encompassing and easily, swiftly angered as the earth over which they preside, good and evil flashing in their natures and changing like the wind and the storms and the waves. Humans are not much better-so dark, so easy to twist for greed, so lustful, for violence and the sickening wrongness of the most twisted types of beauty. And demigods inherit the worst of it-not even half of the power of the gods, any of their divine goodness seemingly cut away by the canker of humanity, the darkness and brooding fury of both races. The price that they pay for the heroism that causes them so much pain.

And there is so much resentment there-so much sweetly bitter darkness that it is almost laughably easy to slip inside it and nest there. It is practically a welcome mat, that barely reigned in loathing-for the gods that sit back and make their children playthings, that let them suffer and bleed and die because they are too proud or lazy or afraid to act, for the other half-blood kind so eager to make war, to toss away the sacrifices of souls that have given their all for never-obtainable peace.

And they are tired-they are always tired, these true heroes. So tired of fighting, of pushing onwards through endless, pointless despair. Tired of being the one to have to make a change. Tired of never winning, of there always being some deeper darkness, waiting to rise up again against the waning, weakening light.

So tired, so desperate just to sleep, enjoy the end of the exhaustion that they've earned through their endless effort, that they do not notice that there is something wrong. That they do not feel the presence that roots itself in their souls, that nestles in their shattered, fighting nature, that clings to their shoulders and curls itself behind their aching eyes.

Until it is far, far too late.

It is so easy to break a demigod-and this one was here, walking over my heart, pushing himself deeper and deeper into me, testing the limits of his cruelty and his conscious, watching one grow as the other faded away. He was here, hurting, agonized, breathing me in, drinking down the burning waters of my blood, every step he took falling against my skin, giving me a chance to feel him, know him, draw myself slowly inwards to the splintered shards of darkness growing in his soul.

I felt him, and I knew him, and slowly, quickly, far too easily, I claimed him for my own.

Percy Jackson fell to me-and though he did not know it, I did.

I did.

And now that he is broken, it is but a matter of time.


	2. Chapter 2: Slip

_Perseus Jackson…_

Percy startled at the voice hissing through his mind, slipping out of the half-trance that he had lulled himself into by listening to his breaths echoing off the walls of the Poseidon cabin.

It wasn't waking up, because he hadn't been asleep-it had been nine days since he slept, nine days since he laid down his head and he could hear the shadows _whispering_ to him, slipping into his blood and filling him with strength and power that won't let him close his eyes on the night.

It wasn't even close enough to sleep for him to be disoriented as his eyes flickered open, heart hammering. He knew where he was, leaned against the wall next to the door of the Poseidon cabin-he could feel the ridges of the coral digging against his bare back, feel the sweat trickling down his neck and the floorboards pressing against his feet. He could even _see_ -shapes, without their colors, but as clearly as though it were day.

He didn't understand what was going on, and it terrified him. He had been living with that terror for weeks-as he stopped sleeping, as his eyesight grew sharper and sharper in the shadows, and as the ocean started feeling less and less like home.

But the voice-that was even worse. Because he knew that voice…just those two words, his name, threw him hurtling back to memories that he had skirted in his mind for months, memories of staring into a whirling void, of a voice echoing through his mind, mocking him, breaking him down, warning him that his time was up, that he was going to die then and there...

He spoke the name as quietly as he could-and shuddered at how right it felt on his lips. How easy it was to say it, when it had hurt for so long to even think it.

"Tartarus."

 _Perseus Jackson…You know what is happening to you...You know…You can feel it…_

The voice hissed and slithered through his head, and Percy trembled-but not because it felt wrong. Because it felt _right_. Far too right. As though this voice had always been a part of him…as though it was meant to be there. As though he was meant to be listening to it.

He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth-

"No," he hissed, every muscle tightening. "No…"

 _Yes…You know, little hero…_

Percy leapt to his feet, Riptide springing outwards, glowing in his hands. Anger was scalding through him, pounding so forcefully within his head that he couldn't stop himself-couldn't stop himself from reaching out, slashing the bunk bed nearest him in half. It exploded, fragments of it ricocheting around the cabin, collapsing with a thunderous crash. Part of him screamed- _he hadn't meant to do that, he didn't want to do that, how had he done that, he wasn't that strong-_ but the anger was overwhelming him, edging his vision with red, obliterating all other thoughts.

"Tartarus," he screamed-but it didn't sound like his voice, and he hadn't meant to yell... "Show yourself!"

 _Oh, you can see me easily enough_. The voice was amused. _Just look at your own hands, little hero…_

Percy didn't want to. He didn't mean to. But his neck bent, against his will, until he was staring down at his hands. They were trembling, bathed in Riptide's bronze glow-covered in the sawdust of the bed he had smashed.

 _Do you understand yet?_

The anger was gone-far too quickly, far too completely. There was nothing left but a hollow emptiness. He tried to speak-to whisper the word _no_ -but his lips were no longer his own.

 _Yes, you understand now. Far too late…But now…Now you will acknowledge your liege…_

He cannot make me, Percy thought-he tried to grit his teeth, to clench his fists, to force himself free. I have a choice, he whispered to himself. He cannot do this to me…

 _Oh, I can. You still don't understand…You are not who you think you are…_

His heart should have been thundering. He should have been fighting. He should have been running, finding someone to help him, to break him free of this. He should have been overcoming it. He was a demigod. He was a hero. He was stronger than this…

 _You are not…You are not a hero…You are_ mine _..._

He could not speak. Could not move. But still, his hands were loose at his side, holding Riptide as easily as though it were a feather, his heart was beating as steadily as if he was sleeping, his muscles relaxed…

 _Listen to me…You are mine…Why would you want to be a godling anyway? Like they care about you…Like you are anything more than a tool for them…A toy for their every whim…_

Percy tried to tell himself not to listen. But the voice was starting to sound more and more like his own-and these were thoughts that he knew all too well. He tried to remind himself who he was talking to. What he was doing to him. That Tartarus was far worse than the gods could ever be…

 _Am I really? I will not lie to you…I will not cast you aside…My servants are rewarded…I grant them immortality…I know every one…The name of every telkhine, every Laestrygonian, every arai…And for you I offer power…You would be the leader of my forces…Honored…You would choose your actions…_

His head pounded-his heart barely beat. There was a reason he should refuse. There were so many reasons. The world…The world would burn under Tartarus. His friends…his family…they would be dead…

 _But would you give that? To finally be free? To be more than a pawn…a tool…What would you give, Perseus Jackson?_

Something deep inside of him cried out, and rose up, and swallowed him, and it felt dark and sharp and dangerous, and for a moment he fought-but he couldn't keep fighting, because it felt so right. It felt like freedom.

What would he give for that? What would he give to finally be in control? He would give everything. _Everything._

 _I would give everything,_ he whispered. _I would burn the world down myself._

 _Then you are mine._

And, in a way, it was Percy Jackson who knelt, who laid his sword down on the ground, who pressed his bent knees against the floor, who let his hands and his head fall downwards, bowing to an invisible god who was all around him.

But in another way, it was not Percy Jackson at all who did these things-not him, but the being of darkness that Tartarus had spun him into, building more and more of his own spirit into the demigod's, connected by the time that he had spent walking across Tartarus' body and drinking his blood to keep himself alive.

Not Percy Jackson at all.


	3. Chapter 3: Out of Reach

_It wasn't possible._

The thought thundered through Annabeth's head, drowning out everything else-the stab of dew and cold grass at her bare feet, the ache of frigid air in her lungs as she sprinted towards the Poseidon cabin, the mess of fire and swarming campers that had woken her in the first place.

 _This couldn't be possible._

Not that the camp was under attack. Not that the attacker was inside the boundaries. Not even that the Poseidon cabin was a smoldering wreckage of flames and shattered coral.

The truly impossible thing was _who_ they had said had done it. Who they said had been standing in the middle of the ruins, laughing, when they came running out of their cabins to face the attack. Who they had told her had knocked Nico di Angelo backwards so hard when he had shadow-traveled into the flames to find Percy that nineteen of his ribs and both his legs were broken from the landing.

She reached the crowd of campers, and began shouldering through them, shoving down her panic as she registered the terrified expressions as people caught glimpses of her, the uncertain way the campers were milling, not attacking, not doing anything-and was there any other explanation for the fact that they weren't defending their home? Any explanation but that the attacker…

Someone grabbed her shoulder, and she turned, hoping against hope that she would see Percy's face at her side. But it was Malcolm-gray eyes wide with panic, blonde hair slicked up into spikes by his sweat.

"Annabeth," he gasped, voice rasping on the smoke. "Annabeth, it's-he's-it's P-percy."

For a moment, terror exploded through her, and she wanted to fall to her knees, to clutch her head and scream. _Not again_ , she wanted to whisper. _Not again, gods, please not again._ She could still see Luke's eyes, desperate and blue, staring down at her from that row of monsters and beasts, could still feel where her heart had shattered in two, watching that face that she had known, had loved, become the face of the enemy. And she didn't think she could survive it if it happened again.

But she breathed deep, held back her rising scream-she had to see him herself. Had to find a way, because no matter what had happened, there had to be a way to bring Percy back to her. There was always a way.

"Alright." Her voice broke as she spoke, and she could feel her hands shaking by her sides, shaking so hard that clenching them into fists did nothing-nothing at all. "Alright-listen to me. You-"

She took another shaking breath, forced herself to stay calm. "I'm going to try and handle this. You need to start getting the fire out. And, Malcolm, if I-if I don't come back, you're head counselor. You know that."

He nodded at her, biting his lip. "You're coming back," he muttered, gripping her arm, eyes glittering. "Don't even think otherwise. Good luck, sis!"

She nodded, and turned away from him, moving towards the center of the crowd, and-Percy.

He was standing in the center of what had been the Poseidon cabin, a black silhouette behind the flickering flames, eagerly dancing in the rectangle shape of the cabin-the fire just high enough to make it impenetrable, low enough to glimpse him through the waving tips of the flames.

Annabeth swallowed back her panic-how had Percy _done_ this? He was a son of Poseidon, not Hephaestus. He couldn't start fires…

She shoved the thought to the back of her mind, walked forward until she could feel the heat rippling over her skin, until it was almost painful to keep walking, her lungs aching with the smoke and the searing waves of heat. Until she was standing at the edge of the flames, staring at the figure that she knew so well-the one that she had thought would always be at her back. Standing there, standing there so she could see the too-familiar profile. The way his hair fell just over his forehead, his long, slender nose, his lips…

Those were wrong. The smirk twisted across them, that didn't belong. It wasn't the little grin of her seaweed brain, wasn't something that she knew, that she had ever seen on that familiar face. It was the grin of an animal-twisted with rage even as he laughed. Dark. Twisted. Terrifying.

Her mouth was open, ready to call out his name, but she couldn't. Couldn't force herself to speak, through the haze of sorrow and desperation that had swallowed her up entirely at the sight of that dark snarl.

It didn't matter. He turned towards her anyways, as if he could feel her standing there, waiting, letting the flames roll around her and scorch her skin. He turned-and she tried to scream.

Because his eyes-they weren't his. They were-they were-

She fell to her knees as he stepped closer, falling back into Tartarus, so that she wasn't staring at Percy. She was staring at _him_ , the lord of the pit, again, standing before her again, and this time there was no escape-

The pressure released, the flames surging back from her-she opened her eyes, cursing the tears that were streaming down them, and the figure was stumbling back-and then he was running, running towards Half-Blood Hill, through the flames as though they couldn't touch him.

Somehow, she dragged herself to her feet, dancing around the flames, pushing herself after him.

"Percy!" she screamed, reaching out an arm as she ran, as though she could somehow draw him back with that one futile, so pointless gesture. "Percy!"

She knew that it was impossible. She had seen his eyes-they weren't _his_ , not the eyes as green as the sea that she had been dreaming about since she was twelve years old. They were black and ancient, and just one look at them had been enough to send her spiraling back into the crippling terror of the pit. Had made her feel like she was back there again, only this time completely alone, without her Seaweed Brain by her side.

But she couldn't stop herself from reaching out-even though she knew it wouldn't change anything. She had to try. She couldn't just let him go, couldn't just curl up in a ball of tears and trembling and fear, which was all she wanted to do. She had to try, because this was her Seaweed Brain, no matter what Tartarus had done to him, and he had to be in there _somewhere_ , right?

Her voice trembled as he crested Half-Blood Hill, cracking and breaking, strangled by the tears pouring down her face, and she knew it was hopeless, even as she stumbled towards him, because any minute now he would be outside the camp, and there would be no chance-the earth would swallow him up, Tartarus would take him, and he would be gone.

But she kept running.

Faster than she had ever run in her life, so fast that her legs were burning like they hadn't since she was seven years old, terrified of the monsters behind her, and her lungs felt like they were crumpling in on themselves. Fast enough to catch him-to reach out and grab the arm of the boy who she loved, to keep him from leaving her behind.

He turned around, staring straight into her eyes, and she screamed again, crumpling to her knees, releasing him to clutch at her splitting head. His gaze was slamming through her, those horrible eyes without whites or pupils or irises, and she was back in Tartarus-she was burning alive-she was a ghost, unable to move-she was blind-she was crippled-

She was kneeling at Tartarus' feet, and knowing that all she could do now was die.

She could feel her heart stopping, something in her chest caving in, the air rushing from her lungs as her body finally surrendered. Not even panting anymore, somewhere past pain, she made her final resolution. She wasn't going to die with her head bent in submission. She would not die bowing to a monster.

She was a daughter of Athena, and she was going to die looking at the face of Tartarus.

She dragged her blurring gaze up from the ground, and stared up at the face that used to belong to the person she loved more than anyone else in the world. She stared at Tartarus, trying to tell him that she wasn't giving up, that she was going to die defiant, that he could not break her, godsdamn it-

And he keeled over sideways, slamming into the ground with a shock that jolted air back into Annabeth's lungs, that restarted her heart with a hammer blow of pain that seared fire through her ribs and chest-

Percy Jackson looked up at her from the ground, eyes shattered, filled with pain-but his. His eyes. Brilliant and green and _his_.

Annabeth tried to move her aching limbs, to fall on him, hug him, kiss him and hold him and never let him go, but she was shaking too hard, in too much pain, to do anything but collapse on the ground next to him, staring at him in disbelief.

He dragged a hand up from the ground-she could feel it trembling as it pressed against her cheek, and she forced her screaming muscles to move, to lay her hand over his.

"Wise girl," he whispered-his voice was jagged, hoarse, quivering as much as his hands. "Annabeth. You have to listen to me. I don't know what's going on. I don't know how to beat him."

Tears burned down Annabeth's cheeks again, her breath catching as she sobbed-more pain lancing through her ribs and her aching, fragile lungs. She couldn't say goodbye. Not like this. She was too weak to even speak-it couldn't happen like this.

 _No_ , she screamed inside her head. _You can do it. Please. I can't lose you._

His fingers pressed harder against her cheek, and his eyes burned as he stared at her-but his voice was even more broken when he spoke again.

"I can't beat him right now. I-gods, Annabeth, I almost killed you. But I swear-I swear on the Styx, Annabeth-I will find a way. I will beat him, and I will come back to you. _I swear it on the River Styx_."

Thunder raced through the sky overhead, and Percy's eyes flickered with the rolling echoes.

"I have to go," he whispered. "I have to leave, before he-before he comes back. But I will come back for you. _I will come back_. I love you, Wise Girl. Forever."

He staggered to his feet, and Annabeth was still too weak to rise with him, to cling to him and keep him here, and he was gone-through the barrier, until the earth opened and poured out shadows that swallowed him, claiming the most important thing in Annabeth's life.

She closed her eyes, and a different sort of shadows took her too.

 **A/N: I'm sorry. I don't usually do author's notes. But I got some lovely sarcastic comments on the last chapter, and I'd just like to address that. THIS IS A DARK PERCY STORY. Percy will be evil. If you don't like that, please don't read, and please don't leave sarcastic reviews. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4: Face-First

It is so easy to break a demigod.

And yet, it is hard-unspeakably hard-to destroy one entirely.

They are halfway gods, after all, and the immortals of Olympus are perpetual, unchanging, incapable of growth or change or learning save some great calamity. Immortal, and, therefore by necessity, sustaining themselves as they are for eons, with the strength of the very world to support them.

And humanity is not much better, all things considered-a stubborn race, thriving despite weakness, spreading across the face of Gaea without limitations-building cities in deserts and mountains and swamps and mires of disease, refusing to back down in the face of the limitations of any sane creature as soft-skinned and weak as themselves.

Demigods, they inherit maybe the minimal amount of this power, but the best of the eternal natures of both their races-the one way in which the gods and the humans are completely alike, and therefore the center of their being. As immortal as it is possible for a mortal to be.

And these true heroes...they are used to exhaustion. To pain, and suffering, and a thousand attempts to dissuade them from their goals. They have spent their entire lives fighting, and that instinct for strength is not something that fades over a single night.

But I am patient-and once Percy Jackson was mine, mired once again in my realm, I devoted to him the millennia that it took to destroy a demigod, and reform him in my image. My commander.

Three millennia-three millennia for his broken mind as I pitted old opponents, old friends against him until every ounce of strength was shattered and he was nothing but a vessel-still with his powers, still with his memories, but so warped by my touch that they were nothing but anger. Until he was completely and utterly mine and he wanted nothing more than to spread my rule across the world.

Until his heart stopped beating and his flesh was immortal and dark and he was more than a Titan, more than a giant, far, far more than a god.

Three millennia in my time to destroy a demigod.

Three years, for those of the world above.

(Even my strength has limits.)

(But it's alright.)

(I'm patient.)


	5. Chapter 5: Head-Over-Heels

Jason coughed, and blood burned in his mouth. It was thick and choking—and now that he'd started coughing, it just kept coming, each more painful than the last.

But he couldn't stop. Couldn't spit out the blood, wipe it away, couldn't even swallow and try to hold the coughing back.

Couldn't stop fighting.

The monsters were everywhere, whirling at him with claws and fangs and swords. Weapons so ancient, (and coated in so much blood—gods, there was so much blood), that he didn't know their names.

He'd killed enough of them that dust of their corpses caked in his hair, stuck his eyelashes together, chafed against his skin—it was piling around his feet, slowing his movements—

And they kept coming.

Sweat was turning the leather handle of Hera's gladius slippery. He was too tired, too overwhelmed, to summon the lightning—even the single heartbeat it would take to focus on the storm would be too long.

And they kept coming—

* * *

Annabeth dug her hand into the sand.

Past the loose top layer, down to where water waited, pooling beneath the beach, ready to consume all of it.

Wet sand scraped her fingers—she knew that they would be red later, skin clawed away by the shards of shells within it. But she couldn't make herself care. There was something about the mindless rhythm of the digging, the dull, barely noticeable pain, that she needed, that dragged her mind away from everything else.

The sand around the hole trickled back down in tiny waterfalls, pale and almost beautiful, but she didn't let herself care. Just dug faster—disregarding the small voice that was whispering it would be wiser to pile some of the damp sand on top of those looser piles and hold it back from the hole.

She didn't want to be wise. Not today.

Sometimes, she didn't want to be the wise one ever again.

The edges of the hole crumbled inwards, piling on top of her hand, and she went still, letting the damp of the ground soak through the cuff of her too-large flannel. It would've been easy to pull free, but she didn't bother. Just sat there, staring at the way the sand piled around her wrist, almost as though the earth was swallowing her.

As though her hand had disappeared—she flexed her fingers, felt them move, sand scraping against them. Saw the motion rippling beneath the sand.

But she couldn't shake the odd sensation of disconnect.

It was the same feeling she'd caught a few times recently looking into mirrors. The instant when the image in the glass was utterly unfamiliar—when looking into her own eyes felt like meeting the gaze of a stranger in a crowd—

Shudders ran down her spine, exhaustion pounding abruptly through her. She dragged her hand into a fist beneath the sand, jerked it free—and it was hers again, long fingers thin enough that the knuckles pressed through the skin as though it was paper, silvery scars invisible beneath the freckles unless you knew where to look.

Percy had known where to look...had taken her hand in his, tilting it beneath the light until he'd found every scratch, every place where blades and claws had slipped past the hilt of her knife and dug into her skin. Tracing them with his callused thumb. Bending to press his lips to each and every one of them, until the reminders of the times she hadn't been quick enough became something else entirely…

She exhaled, trembling, and the sigh was lost in the rushing of the waves.

It wasn't quite enough to make her smile, but she could feel some of the tension in her shoulders evaporating. Her shoulders slid downwards, jaw unclenching, arms loosening—they tended to go stiff, as though she was bracing herself with them, constantly.

It was why she came to the beach—somehow, just watching the waves sway, hearing the ocean whisper and sing and sometimes roar, painted over everything else. She could let go of the fierce energy and the pride that held her up around everyone else. Cry, scream, lie on the sand and let herself fall apart utterly, completely, yell until she was hoarse—at the gods, at Percy, at Tartarus, at herself…

And the surf kept pounding. The tides came and went and murmured, regardless of what she did.

Somehow, it helped. She could leave all her broken pieces on the shore, and walk with her head up when she went back to camp.

And the ocean…

Some days, it was the color of his eyes. A reminder that he was still there, somewhere, when it got hard for her to believe…

She sighed again, spilled forward onto the beach. She lay on her side, staring into the waves, reached forward and dug her fingers back into the sand—with her ear pressed against the ground, she could hear the scratches echoing through the earth. She was tired, and the sand was warm where the sun beat down, and she let her eyes slip closed…

* * *

Hands caught at Annabeth's shoulder, and she jerked into consciousness—blood rushed into her ears, panic hurling her to her feet, stumbling backwards into the crashing waves—

The desperate spinning of the world settled, the darkness fading to the edges of her vision. She remembered to breathe, to feel—there was water, cold and clean, lapping at her feet. The quiet hush of waves, dancing over the sand. The lonely call of a seagull. The beat of sunlight on her skin. The reassuring tug of wind whispering her curls against her neck.

The scent of salt was heavy in the air, familiar and comforting as an embrace, and she knew where she was. Knew she was free. There was a sky above her.

She blinked, and looked back up.

Will Solace stood, hands raised, sad smile nowhere near enough to hid the knowledge and the pity twisting through his eyes.

"I'm sorry I startled you," he began, and Annabeth gritted her teeth—if she'd thought the pity in his eyes was bad…

He saw it, of course. He always did—and the sympathy deepened, even as he kept talking. "Something's happened. Something...well. I should let someone else explain it. But there's a meeting. We needed you there, and I figured you'd be...here."

She turned her glare back to the send, and the ocean dragging against her feet as she stepped free, trying to hide it from him. He didn't deserve it, after all—Will was the kindest person she knew in either of the camps. And not just to her.

It was something that just overflowed from him, that quiet understanding. Even when he was the center of attention in a group, loud and effervescent and funny and charming; or exuberantly bossy in the infirmary, there was this sense that he knew what was going on, thinking something far more profound than whatever joke was on his lips. She'd never seen anyone as quietly devoted as he was with Nico di Angelo, but he still found time to offer his help to literally anyone…

It wasn't really fair to treat him the way she did.

But there was something about how overwhelmingly gentle he was with her that made it impossible for her to do anything else. No matter how angry she was, or how in command, he had that look in his eyes, and that permanent tentative care to his motions whenever he was around her—like he was seeing her command, and unable to deem it anything but a facade. As if she was broken, and fragile, and a single wrong word could break her apart.

It made it infinitely harder not to be.

She marched past him, tossing out a thanks. He fell into step behind her—she could hear him—but she kept walking, ignoring it.

Just like she ignored the look she knew he was giving her.

* * *

Annabeth was expecting to be the last counselor into the Ping-pong room.

Expecting Clarisse, tipped back on two chair legs, impatiently tossing her dagger—it spun dangerously close to the ceiling each time, but she'd been doing this at meetings long enough to have perfected the catching.

She wasn't surprised by Clovis nodding off onto Travis Stoll's shoulder, and Connor gently tweaking his hair into a million tiny ponytails, and Katie Gardner desperately trying not to laugh.

Leo whispering something to Calypso, eyes sparkling dangerously, and Jake Mason, (the official head counselor for Hephaestus, since Leo was gone so often), looking completely _done_ beside him. Lou Ellen shaping something out of a crackling swirl of mist.

The blush on Nico's face as he caught himself smiling at Will. (Expected—but there was still some small part of her that couldn't help smiling at that.)

Butch perched _on_ the table, which wobbled ominously under his bulk as he dodged the furious Ping-pong game the Victor twins were playing around him. Pollux smiling quietly next to the raucous group of minor demigods—though that still hurt, to see him avoiding everyone who'd known him and Castor in favor of them...

But all of it was familiar, and familiarly infuriating. It was enough, almost, to pull her back to the days when she smiled at these meetings. When carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders was exhilarating, because she was twelve years old, and being a hero mattered more than the risk, and the losses.

And then she remembered the way Percy's eyebrows had crumpled together when he was trying to follow the meetings, and how his face used to pucker in dread every time someone mentioned the Oracle—

And Piper rose from her reluctant seat beside Leo, something dancing painfully in her eyes.

There was barely time to recognize it as the panicky gaze of someone who has given their everything to holding back her tears, and then she hurled herself forward, and Annabeth was holding the daughter of Aphrodite in her arms.

She stumbled back slightly, staring at Chiron, demanding some sort of explanation for this—and why seriousness was only now starting to creep to the rest of the counselors, as if they hadn't realized there was really something wrong. The centaur unfolded, clearing his throat, and Annabeth couldn't force down the tingling fear at the ancient sorrow in his eyes.

"Jason Grace..." he began—stopped, and Piper's fingers dug painfully into Annabeth's back—"Jason Grace is dying."

There was dead silence for a moment—even the vicious game of Ping-pong halted, both twins suddenly sensing a far, far greater enemy, (and the potential for a far greater victory). And the moment turned into minutes—minutes of silence, utter stillness hanging in the air.

The stillness of a camp who had already lost their greatest hero, (and Annabeth knew enough to admit that they had largely lost her along with him), now threatened by the loss of another. Of friends, of brothers and sisters, who couldn't wholly claim those titles anymore, and knew the pain that was now tearing some of them apart all over again. Of warriors, who had fought and fought, survived prophecy after prophecy...enough to recognize the threat hanging over them now.

The threat that they had been ignoring, as year after year went by without any sign of the boy who their greatest enemy had claimed.

Clarisse's chair thunked back down onto the ground.

"Keep talking."

Chiron winced, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. "They found him this morning, outside New Rome—the guards swear that they were never asleep, never looking away, but sometime around sunrise, he just...appeared. Right at their feet. As if...well. They said it was as if the ground opened up and he was there—"

"Hades."

Nico rose, teeth bared. "If you dare to suggest that my father has anything to do with this, _Clarisse_ , I would remind you that the last time someone suspected my father to be a traitor, it ended up being _yours_ —"

"Oh yeah? Well, _di Angelo_ ," she said, tone a blazing mockery of the icy rage he'd put into her name, "I'll _remind_ you that, last time I checked, your dad _was_ the god of the Underworld, and the one sort of known for popping out of the ground and pulling people into—"

"Enough!" Chiron stamped a hoof, cutting off the rant. Nico was still tensed, poised as if to attack, but he stayed silent.

"This will not help Mr. Grace. Ms. La Rue, Lord Hades has indeed been questioned by Zeus. He has denied all involvement, and there is no real evidence to point to him—enough, Ms. La Rue! The Lord of the Dead is far from the only entity with control over the ground."

Clarisse's sneer twisted higher, but Annabeth didn't care. Piper was still trembling, face buried in Annabeth's shoulder, barely moving even as Annabeth eased both of them to a chair—

And an idea was blooming somewhere in the back of Annabeth's mind, barely out of focus. Something blurry and absolutely terrifying.

"Jason," Nico whispered, sounding almost angry at himself for asking. "What about Jason? You said he was dying. What did you..."

Annabeth glanced up, hating herself slightly for not even thinking about it—in time to watch Chiron's features crumple, falling into a distance, an ancient pain, that none of them could understand. His tail lashed, and for a moment, his words seemed trapped within that grief.

Yet they came—every one draining him more, until he slumped over the table, almost enough for Annabeth to wish he had never spoken at all.

"Mr. Grace...well. He was poisoned. Severely. By a bite on his leg. The—New Rome's healers amputated in time to keep the majority of it out of the rest of his blood, but..."

Piper finally broke. Her sob rang through the silent room, fingers digging deep enough into Annabeth's back to ache. The daughter of Athena raised a hand to stroke Piper's loose braids, but she couldn't take her eyes from the exhausted heartbreak swirling in Chiron's eyes—

"It's an intimidation tactic," Clarisse muttered, breaking the reverent moment. "Standard one. You leave someone alive, maybe knowing who attacked them, it depends, where they'll be saved. Spread the message. But they're neutralized. Someone's trying to send a message."

Piper shook harder, and Leo snorted, a bitter darkness utterly eclipsing the light of his eyes. It came like that, ever since he'd died—dark and abrupt, and honestly terrifying.

"Who? Why? What can there possibly be left for us to fight? We defeated the _fucking_ earth—"

* * *

Annabeth knew.

* * *

 _Eyes a million different shades of red and black and purple, nauseatingly, impossibly swirled—dark and dangerous—searing through her—she was on her knees, she was dying, and he towered over her and_ laughed—

* * *

"Percy."


	6. Chapter 6: Scream

Perseus Jackson laughed as he ran.

Bitter and broken and angry—and still desperately, sharply, happy. Because he was _free_.

Free from the darkness that it had taken Tartarus to pull him out of, that claustrophobic blackness far worse than the pit, where he'd been thrown. Drowning in rock that he could feel, but not see, barely able to move, to even defend himself as every single person he'd ever trusted, everyone who should've understood, attacked him—

They hadn't really been there, Tartarus told him later. But if they could've been...oh, if they could've had a chance to destroy a traitor, they would've. Every strike they took, it was the desire that lived in their hearts and their minds, the truth of their feelings about Percy. That was the spell of the darkness, he'd said—there could be no lies, not within that. The gods had designed it that way, to learn their enemies' secrets. But now their own power would twist against them, because they had never built it to withstand Tartarus, and he had managed to shatter that place of power.

The truth they had meant to destroy their enemy, (for they had thought of him as an enemy, he could see now—after a single stand against their power), had only given him the strength to end them. Once and for all.

And if he also got to destroy those who had betrayed him, there in the darkness—

Well.

Let it never be said Tartarus was unfair.

Perseus laughed again, and this time, the monsters laughed with him, filling the woods with their cacophony. Howls cut through some of it, cold as the moon—but they were few, and so weak, and Perseus commanded so many.

Enough to make Hunters hunted, tonight.

* * *

Thalia was out of breath.

Which didn't happen often. She was the godsdamn lieutenant of Artemis, blessed by the wildest of the Olympians. She could outrun any monster that she couldn't outfight.

But she was gasping as she ran. Her lungs and her legs were both on fire, enough that her body was screaming for her to stop. The most pain she'd been in since she became a Hunter, enough that the wind was starting to affect her, that she would have to slow soon—

A clearing opened before her. A massive rock loomed in its center, the promise of a chance at a final stand.

She cursed, summoning the last of her failing strength, and _ran_.

Leaped.

She slammed into the rock, hard enough to draw blood, tearing through her cargo pants.

She couldn't see any of the other Hunters. No one to stand with her. Not that she was really surprised—they'd been running since Cleveland, and they were somewhere near Maine now. Plenty of time to scatter. Or be killed by whatever it was that was chasing them.

As she was probably about to be.

She slammed her hand against her bracelet, and Aegis spun outwards, glowing softly into the night. Too dark for arrows—and this wasn't a fight she could win. At most, it was one she could outlast until Artemis found her. This would be close and defensive and brutal. Her spear shimmered into existence, and she breathed, raggedly, trying to summon enough focus to begin building a storm.

Footsteps thundered around her, circling her in the clearing—

But nothing attacked. They stayed in the shadows, too far back for her to see. Lurking as a silent promise of what would happen if she tried to escape.

Thalia's heart pounded harder, racing faster than she thought was possible. She forced herself to relax, shake free the tension in her shoulders— _fluid and fast and ready to fight—_ but she couldn't catch her breath.

No—it wasn't her. There was something there in the woods, drawing ever nearer. Something with the same petrifying aura that Kronos had, but a million times worse. Strong enough that she couldn't shake the terror.

But she could use it, she recalled suddenly. It was energy, just like her anger. She fed it into the air around her, until it was charged, on the verge of sparking—and forced the energy up, into the clouds. Draining the fear, along with her strength and breath, clouding her vision, but she forced herself to stay upright, feeding the storm until it surged, ready to break the instant she told it to, the instant—

Thalia slammed to her knees, power ricocheting through the clearing. She'd thought it was bad before, but this…

For a dizzy moment, she sprawled on the rock, world whirling around her. For a moment, all she could do was pray. Not even to a specific god, just whispering _please_ in her mind, again and again.

Her control over the storm snapped, and lightning blazed down, blindingly white, thunder cracking through the trees with enough force to shake them.

And the power vanished, enough for Thalia to heave herself to her feet, leaning on her spear, and stare through the light scorched into her eyes. There was a lanky body sprawled at the edge of the clearing, bronze sword glittering a few inches from the scarred hand. Unconscious face gleaming in the moonlight, sharp featured, half-hidden by messy black hair, and...familiar.

Thalia almost fell again. Almost leaped from the rock and ran to him, almost let herself get carried away with the relief of not having to make her stand alone.

Almost.

Because that overwhelming fear had stopped when she hit _him_. Because something _had_ been chasing her Hunters.

Because Riptide wasn't glowing. As though it wasn't celestial bronze anymore.

She stayed on the rock, high above the clearing, and the body of her long-vanished friend. Waiting. Watching. Cursing the fact that all her supplies were in the pack that had been torn from her back somewhere in Pennsylvania.

Hoping—

Percy Jackson's eyes blinked open, and for an instant, they were blinding, blackened night. Swirling pits, drawing her in, mesmerizing. Exactly how Annabeth had described Tartarus, still shaking after a nightmare when she'd needed to talk, and Thalia had been there.

He hadn't escaped. He hadn't beaten Tartarus.

He'd given up.

By the time he stood, his eyes were back to desperately blinding green, but it was far too late. Thalia had seen. And now that she knew to look for it, she could feel the power seeping off of him—restrained, almost hidden, but there.

"Thalia," he gasped, and she had to admire his acting skills. She almost doubted, staring at the panic on his face. "Thalia, you have to help me—I just escaped—"

She snorted, pretending confidence so vividly that she almost felt it.

"I saw your eyes. When you got up."

"Can't blame me for trying, can you?" he taunted, and for a moment it was eerily familiar.

Then his smile became vicious, power lashing back out—Thalia was braced this time, and she still almost buckled. But after that first wave hit, she realized, it was manageable. This, she could fight with.

She bared an angry grin right back at him.

He spun Riptide back into his hands, and slammed the blade against the ground.

Thalia's rock shattered entirely, splintering into clouds of powder and tiny shards that sliced through her skin, and she tumbled to the shaking earth. She twisted, breaking the impact with her shield, so hard it cut into her arm.

She wouldn't let herself be intimidated. She had called down lightning, and it had hurt him. She was standing. She could do this.

Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus, lieutenant of Artemis, leveled her spear, and charged.

* * *

She'd gotten better since the darkness, Perseus thought.

There she'd fought with a bow, from a distance that he couldn't seem to find without slamming up against rock. She hid behind silver arrows that whistled to quickly through the darkness for him to track, and tore open just enough of his flesh to leave him walking, wounded. When he finally dug himself a tunnel to her, she would pull out two knives, that sometimes sparked with electricity, and slash.

Here, the fighting was close and brutal, and there were no guarantees.

She swung that massive shield as gracefully as if it weighed nothing, flipping it quickly enough to keep almost everything essential covered—and sometimes she struck with it, bludgeoning at his arms, his knees, until bones cracked. Her grip on her spear was unshakable, even one-handed, and she thrust with enough force that sometimes it got through, despite his attempts to knock it aside.

She was still weak, of course.

There were a million glimpses he caught of her neck uncovered, her limbs unprotected, her body bent awkwardly enough for a single kick to smash her ribs and stop her heart.

Perseus was the commander of Tartarus, after all. He had surrendered the pathetic gods she still clung to for the power of an entire realm, wild and elemental, and not even the greatest mortal heroes would overcome him.

But it took a little less restraint than he'd been expecting to keep her alive long enough.

* * *

Sweat burned down into Thalia's eye, and she gritted her teeth through the pain.

She couldn't look away, not from this battle.

Not if she wanted to live.

Riptide scythed for her head, and she hurled Aegis upwards, ducking and thrusting for Percy's knee. Somehow, impossibly, he stepped out of the way, leaving her off-balance and exposed and—

She sprang away from the kick he leveled at her face, but she was still toppling, and this time she didn't raise her shield fast enough to stop the sword—it slammed into her collarbone, and _caught_ , lodged in the bone.

A scream wrenched unwillingly out of her, pain burning with the white-hot blood that was spurting around the blade as Percy dragged her closer—

She clenched her fists tight around the pain, and forced the searing agony into energy—

The surge of electricity was sloppy and unfocused. Pain always was. But it jolted through the sword effectively enough anyways, hurling Percy back. She almost blacked out with the pain of the metal tearing free, the lightning conjured far too sloppily, stinging her as well.

But.

She was still standing, and the thing wearing Percy Jackson's face was flying backwards through the air, and she had a _chance_. She forced herself into motion, sprinting after his writhing form.

Leaped, tackled him to the ground—he may have fought like something more than human, but his body crumpled just like one. His eyes were still rolling, body twitching with the leftover electricity, and as they collided with the dirt, dragged painfully through it, she reared back, slamming Aegis with enough force that she felt his nose snap, until his face was buckling beneath the metal—

She knew she should stop, pull out her knives and pin him, but she was running on nothing but pure, feral instinct, ignoring the pain stiffening her right arm, and part of her was terrified that, if she stopped, she wouldn't be able to get herself to move again.

A different part of her was terrified that pinning him wouldn't matter anyways. That he would be strong enough to throw her back, that she'd have to kill him to stop him—and no matter how gone he seemed, she wasn't willing to risk that. Not yet.

* * *

 _Damn_ , Perseus thought, starting back to consciousness as pain shot through his splintered nose. _That was...unexpected._

That was twice now that her lightning had—

Metal slammed against his face, and he tasted blood, shards of chipped teeth grating painfully against the roof of his mouth, catching in his throat as he swallowed involuntarily.

 _Alright_ , he thought, fury blazing up. _If her lieutenant's bravery is not enough to call a goddess, perhaps her death will be._

* * *

Thalia heaved her arm upwards again.

And Percy twisted beneath her.

He shoved his way to his feet, and she flew back, wrenched into a graceless landing by the weight of her shield, slamming the ground hard enough that her lungs ached, emptied of breath. She gasped, retched, tried to pull herself to her feet—

But now, Percy towered over her, and his blows came too fast to block. She hauled her shield over her head one last desperate time, but there was no strength left in her arms, and the blow of the sword drove the shield back down onto her, slamming against her head and setting her ears ringing.

She fell back from her knees, sprawled empty on the forest floor—her right arm was beyond her control, screaming with pain, left finally too weighed down by her shield to lift again—

Percy towered over her, smashed, bloody face twisted and savage, and she wondered how she'd ever mistaken him for her friend.

His foot stomped onto her knee, and another burst of agony rushed over her with the sound of shattering bones. Thalia snarled, defiant of the pain, the sense that was screaming that he'd been toying with her, and it was finally time for her to die, and, as he drew back to kick again, she moved.

There would be no more lightning. No more tricks. Just one final chance—

She hurled herself sideways, momentum forcing her numb right hand to slam against Aegis. The shield groaned, spiraling back into a bracelet, and she kept moving, rolling unencumbered now. Her spear was lost, and she wouldn't have been able to use it left-handed anyways—

Her fumbling fingers closed around the sheath at her waist, and she swung to a halt, dizzy and gasping, and pulled free the knife.

She couldn't stand.

Could only force herself onto one knee, letting the left drag behind her, throbbing. But she did, staring at Percy, knife held out strong despite the trembling running through her.

"You want to kill me, monster?" she gasped, watching him stalk closer. Pretending, as she had so many times before, at a strength she didn't feel, hoping it would lend it to her. "You're finally done playing?"

Percy's scratched lips curved up in a sardonic smile, a child caught at his game.

Thalia ignored it, kept her eyes locked on those disturbingly green irises.

"Fine. Do your worst. I am the lieutenant of Artemis, and I'll hurt you again before you kill me. That, I swear on the _Styx_."

"There are far greater rivers in Tartarus," Percy snarled, "than your _Styx_."

He slashed down—

Thalia hurled the knife. Watched it spin towards him—

Watched him turn ever so slightly, so that the perfect throw barely nicked his side.

She swore, tried to throw herself back, away from the implacable blade. Knowing it was useless—

An arrow tore silver through the night, and slammed so hard into Riptide's blade that the swing careened out of control, spared Thalia's life.

"My lady," she whispered, and looked towards the edge of the clearing, where Artemis stood poised on a tree, bow bent, ready to fire again.


	7. Chapter 7: Claw

Thalia had thought she was doing well against Percy.

She realized now that, if he'd really fought, she'd have been dead in a minute.

Arrows tore the night to ribbons, whirling from a different corner of the clearing every second. Huge and heavy enough to shatter bones, impale a monster completely, and they fell so thick that the sky was caged in by the streaking silver. Each was shot with impossible skill—the ground around Thalia bristled with them, but not a single one had hit her.

But none of them had hit Percy either.

He moved like a whirlwind, throwing himself around the arrows, slashing them aside with the flat of his blade, completely untouchable.

And then a single arrow grazed his cheek, and blood exploded vivid into the night. Tore through quickly enough that Thalia caught the white gleam of bone beneath it, and as he stumbled another flurry hurtled towards him—

He still dodged quickly enough that they only sliced his arms, not even enough to knock his next swing off-course. It was almost beautiful, Thalia thought, the pain starting to blur her focus on the world. Artemis leaping from tree to tree, haloed by moonlight—gleaming, as though she was made out of it. Percy dark and silhouetted, twisting through the night, impossibly flexible. And the arrows looked just like stars…

She gritted her teeth, trying to fend off the shock that was creeping up on her, now that she no longer had to fight. She couldn't afford to go dazed and dumb—regardless of how much of an escape it would be from the intensity of the agony. She had to focus.

She had to—

Something loomed above her, cutting off the starlight, and slammed a kick into her chest, knocking her backwards, out of the halo of arrows where she'd been kneeling.

Thalia groaned, and tried desperately to force herself up, but only half of her body responded, and she sank back, staring up at the silhouette with bared teeth.

A sword flew upwards, glinting tarnished bronze, and now panic surged through her, giving her enough strength to twist, trying to roll away—

Her limbs blazed again, and she couldn't move, not enough—

Impossibly fast, the moon plummeted from the sky, and met the blow, hurling Percy back.

No, not the moon. Merely her goddess. Shining so brightly silver that it was impossible to make out anything but the light, and the vaguest shape of a girl, brandishing a long knife.

"Lady," Thalia gasped, and the glowing figure glanced down, features visible for an instant. They were set, imperious as they always were during a hunt. But behind that, there was a deep, unsettling sadness. Thalia's breath caught—it almost looked—

"Dear one," Artemis whispered. She reached a hand down. Brushed aside Thalia's hair, traced her cheek, catching tears Thalia hadn't realized were pouring. Bent, and kissed Thalia's forehead.

It was plunging into a mountain pool, cracking the thin ice at the surface as you did so. Scrambling to the tip of a tree to watch the earth shake in the passing of a monster, and feel the wind whisper that it could catch you, tempting you to jump. It was the thrill of the hunt, and the glow of moonrise, and the sheer, simple beauty of the woods. It was almost enough to make Thalia smile.

Until she remembered the blessing that the goddess tried to bestow on each of her hunters before they died, so they could go to Hades in peace.

Thalia tried to force herself back up, to protest, but Artemis straightened, and sprinted for the figure rising on the other side of the clearing, leaving Thalia propped on one elbow, staring.

She watched her Lady falter, too close to use a bow, unable to return to the trees for fear that he would strike at Thalia. Weave desperately back and forth, meeting blows with her knives crossed, slashing for Percy, occasionally making contact…

But she was the goddess of archery, not of swords or knives or even really of fighting.

She met every blow that could've killed her, or whirled aside—barely in time—but there were others that made it through. Feints pulled out impossibly quickly at the last second, blows with enough force to drive her knife aside, until the harsh gold of dripping ichor cut through the halo of moonlight.

Until Artemis began to fail.

* * *

Perseus heaved his sword downwards, and, as the silver blade rose to meet it, dragged it around, swinging for the goddess' unprotected ribs instead. Her eyes flashed with sudden resolution—

She leapt—towards him, instead of away as he'd been expecting. Suicide—

Except that she was a goddess, so it wasn't.

She whirled under his sword, quickly enough to stab, uncannily precise, into the artery on his leg, sending blood spurting out. He gritted his teeth and swiped, but his left leg was suddenly unable to hold his weight, and she wrenched her knife free easily, backing away just enough.

He growled, forced the pain down. Pressed his weight onto the aching leg until he was sure he could bear it.

But he was off-balance now, defensive, and the goddess was charging again, knife outstretched.

Memory twitched at his fingertips, and he laughed.

He swung, slamming the flat of his blade against hers, and _twisted._

The knife tore free of her hands, skidding across the forest floor, and she dove for it, but this time, she was far too slow.

This time, Perseus' foot caught her in the side of the head, heavy enough to break the skin, gold streaking down into her eyes. This time, she crumpled, retching with the force of impact with the ground. This time, when she rose, she was unarmed, eyes glazed and dizzy, too dazed to reveal her true form, or try to escape—

Perseus swung again, and Riptide tore through the goddess' neck.

Her head toppled to the ground, ichor spurting bright enough gold that it scorched a supernova against his eyes. And it kept glowing, even as it puddled on the ground, eating away at the dirt and the frosted clumps of grass. Illuminating the desperate anger twisting the dead features, the bloodied girl across the clearing, trying so hard to rise...

Perseus Jackson laughed, deep and bitter and broken, and he found that he could not stop.

He was _free_. There were stars over his head, keeping the world away from the total blackness that he had known for so long. Wind against his face, cold and _clean_ , and every stroke of his blade was his own. His own hatred for being imprisoned, his own anger, his own selfishness. It felt so good to be selfish. To finally be wholly his own, no more a pawn, but under his own control.

He stood over the body of the fallen god, and laughed.

* * *

Thalia gritted her teeth, and hurled herself forward again.

She was crying, so hard her lungs burned, the world blurred around her, and every shattered bone was aching—but she had to get up.

She would.

She would reach her Lady, and somehow—there was something—Artemis was a god and a god didn't die like this—a god didn't _die—_

Percy looked up at her, face still twisted with his awful laughter, and the power surging through him slammed into Thalia again, enough this time to topple her sideways. Her hands refused to catch her, and her jaw cracked as it slammed into the rocky ground.

He reached her impossibly quickly. She couldn't raise her head enough to see anything more than scuffed sneakers, familiar and so incongruous with the golden ichor clinging to their edges, but she could still feel his gaze. Pounding into her, setting her head spinning, making every wrenching breath a hopeless effort.

"Thalia Grace."

Agony. Obliterating the rest of the world. The full, undiluted power of something that had killed a god, focused on her, just on her—

She whimpered, trying to curl up, to hide. Her knee erupted with pain at the movement, splintered collarbone screaming—

There was no hiding from this. But there was no way to end it either…

She coughed, lungs suddenly flaming, and blood spurted up into her mouth.

"Not quite as idiotically brave as we thought, huh?" Percy asked, resentment boiling in every word.

The _pain—_

"Well, cousin. I suppose it might be good. This way I don't have to kill you to get away. And it'll be much better for them to know who's killing gods if you're screaming when they find you."

The pain wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't growing or fading or changing. It just _was_. And there was a way around it. There always was.

Whatever the monster pretending to be her friend was saying faded. Lost to Thalia's focus on her own shaky breaths. On the cold ground beneath her. On the world beyond the pain. Because she _would_ reach it—

"You didn't kill her," she gasped, arching back, throat tearing raw with the force of the barely-whispered words.

It took all of the air in her lungs. All the strength she had left. She crumpled again, and still, it didn't stop Percy.

"Oh, you're right," he mused, squatting into Thalia's line of sight—his eyes were still green, but the color was twisting slowly darker, and she couldn't make herself turn away—

"Gods are hard to kill. But I've still hurt her badly enough that, for now, she's gone. And who I send her to next, she's never coming back from."

He reached out, catching under her chin and dragging her face closer to his, so violently a scream escaped her lips. The perfect nose was still shattered, bone gleaming in his bloody cheek, but Thalia couldn't convince herself anymore that that mattered.

"So you tell them _that_ , cousin. If you live long enough."

His smile was crooked and familiar, and Thalia closed her eyes, giving in to the fate it implied.

The sword that slammed through her stomach, hotter and brighter than all the other agony, was almost a relief.

* * *

Jason jolted back to life screaming his sister's name.


End file.
